The Good Left Undone
by iigekreuzigt
Summary: All because of you, I believe in angels. Not the kind with wings, no, not the kind with halos. The kind that bring you home, when home becomes a strange place. CAM
1. A Thousand Watts Brighter

**Title**: The Good Left Undone

**Pairing**: Cam

**Rating/Warnings**: M for sexual situations, self harm, and some obscene language. If any of this (or Cam) offends you, please don't read. This is your warning. (:

**Inspiration**: The epic song that is impossible to get tired of, _The Good Left Undone_ by Rise Against. It also tells the story of most of my highschool life, so I put this story in context and therefore, you could certainly say this is based on a true story.

**Comments**: Before you complain, the characters may be slightly to moderately OOC. Why? Because this story is pretty AU, and just because I can make it that way.

**Prologue**

My name is Samantha Puckett, and I am one ugly motherfucker.

I must be, I realize, as I sit in Hell, otherwise known as Ridgeway High's art room, and no one's bothered to talk to me, so I must be pretty ugly, kind of like the walls caging me in. They're covered with decades of colorful and occasionally frightening masterpieces created by students sitting in these same illegally uncomfortable, bright blue plastic chairs that can only be found in two places in the whole district: this room, and the elementary school. I hate these chairs. I hate this class, mostly because it's now mandatory for all freshman to take one semester of Art, and I feel so lucky that the school board decided to start this marvelous idea the very year I'm a freshman. Art isn't exactly my thing, unless I'm allowed to smash it afterward.

The bell hasn't rung yet, so kids are still slowly trickling into the room like a leaky faucet, and I watch in vague amusement as each reacts differently to the interesting array of scents that reach them as they walk through the door. Faces scrunch and noses twitch at the smell of wet clay, cheap watercolors, and turpentine that I'm finding heavenly in a way. Just to drive the point home, I take a real deep breath to fill my lungs with this possibly toxic air. I giggle softly to myself as I get light-headed with such a high concentration of toxins versus oxygen.

And it's halfway through this little miniature rush that I spot the girl who is certainly anything but an ugly motherfucker, and the name is Carly Shay.

I'm Sam and that fact alone means that I'm rather unliked by the majority of my peers, but I'm pretty good at faking it. And while it may be the first day of school, this year will be no different, and I'm still withholding that in-your-face aura. The bell is near ringing by now, I assume, and nobody that really likes me has trickled in that godforsaken door. I'm desperate not to be lonely this year for even one period a day, so I decide I'm going to talk to that girl, because she's the only one I really recognize in this room as not being a bitch.

"Car---" I start, and then, in all her red high-heeled splendor, she's smiling, and walking faster, right past me, and that's when I realize she's smiling at someone that's not me. She promptly takes a bright blue plastic seat next to that damn Freddie Benson across the table from me, and they've immediately drowned out the rest of the world in their deep-looking conversation. I grumble under my breath as the bell rings long and low, almost like a brick I swallowed, and my eyes dart around the spacious room, searching desperately for anyone to talk to. I feel like a nothing, like a total outcast right now, and that's not what Sam is.

I'm looking around, losing hope with each smiling, talking face my eyes grace themselves across. They all look one hundred watts dimmer than Carly Shay, who sits in the middle of the room chatting and laughing with the practically colorless Freddie, and she's absolutely radiating light and color that's pretty much her own spectrum.

And that's when I make up my mind. I'm talking to this girl if it kills me.

_In fields where nothing grew but weeds,_

_I found a flower at my feet..._


	2. Flamingo Pink

**Chapter One**

_I wrapped a hand around its stem,_

_I pulled until the roots gave in..._

It's eight days into the school year that I finally get the balls to talk to that girl. It wasn't all that satisfying; in fact, it was a lot like a street drug, and once I get a little, it's not enough anymore, and I'm risking a lot to get what I've come to _need_.

The way it went down was less than traditional, or even interesting.

The Art room is total shit. I suspect that this is because the Art students themselves are shit, and who can throw a football is much more important than who can paint a pretty pony. And because the room is in such disrepair, most of the tables are lopsided and wobbly. Put eight teenagers per table, and you have impending blood to be spilled should anyone decide to violently erase something and possibly tip the entire wooden table over, putting every masterpiece in progress at risk.

The table I sit (and do little more) at is particularly lopsided, slanted downward in my convenient direction. And on the blessed Eighth Day of School, our art teacher just-so-happened to have caught the swine flu and was consequently replaced with a temporary substitute, who just-so-happened to have zero experience in the world of art, leaving us with paper and markers while he read a 90s romance novel in the back of the room, shined black leather shoes propped up on the rickety wooden desk.

I'm very engrossed in my beautiful work of art, the image of heavenly flying bacon with me plucking it from the sky for my own enjoyment. The look on the cartoon figure of myself as I bite into the savory meat in obvious ecstasy makes me hungry, which really is surprising considering this is the first period of the day.

And just as I'm coloring in the horrified baby bacons flying away in fear at the sight of their mother being devoured by a very hungry Sam, I get distracted. An innocent little marker gently rolls its way to my side of the lopsided table, as if it were sneaking away to tell me something, subtly so as not to draw attention to itself.

In confusion, I pick the marker up and roll it around in my fingers. It's Flamingo Pink. I hate pink. I look up to trace the source of the sneak attack, meeting eyes with a Carly Shay who is particularly colorful, and even brighter than Flamingo Pink. Deep brown eyes twinkle and perfect, glossy pink lips curl in a friendly smile as she holds out her hand. I reach across the table, careful not to bump it and cause the whole thing to come crashing down, and drop the item into her hand, which closes before placing it back in line with the other, much more conformed markers.

"Thanks," she says always-so-politely with a steady smile, which I return without hesitation.

"Sure thing," I all but mumble, returning to filling in baby bacons with blood red color. And now that her voice is redirected at Freddie, I feel my toes curl and I think I'm going through withdrawal. It's only been five seconds.

"Hey, can I borrow that pink marker?" I ask Carly on impulse, and she gladly rolls it down the pock-marked wooden table. I flash her a grateful smile as we both go back to our previous tasks.

I absent-mindedly color in my shirt Flamingo Pink in the caricature of myself biting into the strip of delicious mommy bacon.

**I hate pink.**

Over the next few days, I take every chance I get to make brief and often awkward conversation with the glowing girl that had overtaken my mind during much of Art. But that was just because I was bored and lonely. And bored and lonely Sam equals a Sam with little defense, which is not something often found in its feral state. Whether it's inhaling rubber cement just to sneeze and hear her polite little "Bless you", or unnoticedly stealing small objects of hers so she can lose her mind trying to figure out where she put said small object, until I exclaim that I've found it and she acts eternally grateful, like she owes me her life or something. Man, I'm subtle.

And it's the equally-blessed Eleventh Day of School when, by the time the bell drones its low tones, I take notice of something big, something epic.

Freddie's bright blue plastic seat is empty. And I should probably pity him because he likely caught the same swine flu that gave me my first opportunity to talk to that mysterious Carly, but I don't, because he's really the only thing standing in my way from doing it all the time.

Man, I love pigs. I mean, the fact that they give up their fat bellies to give me the luscious and irresistible bacon is more than enough. But now, they hand out not one, but two contagious diseases that happen to work to my advantage? Yeah, I love pigs. Plus, pigs are pink, and I kind of like pink.

Carly kind of reminds me of me now, the way she sits there idly twirling the charms on her bracelet and looking utterly lonely. It's like looking in a magic mirror that makes me gorgeous and colorful and a decent, friendly person that's never belched in someone's face or robbed a grocery store. Her colors are a little weak today, like they've been drained, and--

Then she looks up. Brown meet blue and blue quickly averts the situation, but it hasn't been forgotten. I can tell, the way she doesn't look away, and then finally goes back to her charm bracelet twirling with the tiniest little smirk, like she's lodging the moment in her memory to be retrieved later. Either that, or she knows something. But what does she know? Is there something that _I_ don't even know?

Mr. Garrett walks into the sarcastically well-perfumed Art room sixteen minutes after the bell has rung. We've all noticed the way his abnormally high-pitched voice also sounds like he has a permanent cold, which still makes a number of us giggle every time.

"You're gonna draw today. So go do it." That's all he says, before resuming his statue-like position with feet resting on the shaking desk. Mr. Garrett looks almost contemplative, kind of like an ancient statue of a philosopher in a famous art gallery. Besides his occasional page turn or the readjustment of his gold-rimmed 70s style rapist-esque glasses, he could almost be an ancient statue.

"It's Sam, right?" The voice catches me off guard, and my gaze snaps to the glow in front of me, a sparkling Carly with a beaming smile. _She's talking to me_, oh my fuck.

"Sure is," I state blankly, not really sure what to say at all considering I'm not one for small talk. Then I realize that I've only said four words to the girl, and two of them were 'sure'. I made a mental note to eradicate that word from my vocabulary. "Carly, right?" I ask her similarly, even though I know her name. Everyone knows her name. I think I just want to know her voice. She smiles, so radiantly, and nods.

"Yup." We retrieve our half-finished works of art from our cubby holes on the far side of the room, and get back to work with marker-stained fingers and cramping hands. Carly and I don't make a sound in each other's direction anymore; just sit there and silently have each other's company. I'm coloring in my shorts bright green, even though bright green and Flamingo Pink don't exactly match. Then again, nothing about me really matches. The marker scribbling fervently across from the table has been still for a few moments, and I glance up briefly at Carly, who is studying my drawing with a very amused look on her face.

"Is that you?" She questions, smile imminent but held back.

"Sure is," I accidentally reply with my dreaded word. I physically kick myself under the table.

"And is that...flying bacon?" _Stop holding back that smile._

"Mhm...and I'm eating the mommy bacon, and the baby bacons are flying away, but I'm letting them because grown-up bacon tastes a lot better," I ramble. Carly chuckles.

"I like your toes," she compliments in a little squeak of a voice, and I turn my eyes up, eyebrows knitted in confusion._ She likes my...toes?_ I look under the table seeing my toes completely clothed in ratty old Converse high tops. She laughs at this. "No, I meant in your picture. Your toes in your picture...they're cute." I glance at them, and even I have to admit that my little naked toes are pretty cute, and I don't typically find anything cute, not even puppies.

"Thanks," I reply, chuckling nervously. "...what's yours?" I ask, but she quickly plops her massive purse in front of her paper, blocking my view of her drawing.

"Uh...you can't see. Carly eyes only!" she blurts out, and then it's her turn to nervously chuckle. I raise an eyebrow, but she doesn't cave, just runs a hand through her hair and nibbles on her bottom lip.

"Fine then," I sing teasingly, finishing the left leg of my bright green shorts. Carly seems confused that I gave up so easily, with her slim eyebrows forming a crease between themselves, and I smile as I color away fervently.

_Finding there what I'd been missing..._


	3. Beautifully So

_So I tell myself, I tell myself it's wrong,_

_There's a point we pass to which we can't return..._

It's the twelfth day of school, and things have returned to being relatively normal, if they ever were to begin with. Mr. Garrett is still teaching, if you could ever call it that. Freddie's plastic seat is filled again, after having a whole weekend to get its repair from whatever strand of swine flu had broken down his defenses. And Carly is, well, torn.

There's eight total people at this beaten-up wooden table. Besides Carly, Freddie, and me, there is also a kid I recognize as Trippy, whose real name, I think, is Kyle. You can probably guess why his name is Trippy. I'd never gotten to know him that well, except when I had gone through a rough spot late last schoolyear and bought some Valium from him. I swear, I never did that again. Drugs are scary shit, and they definitely do not mix well with me.

There's also his girlfriend, or at least, I assume she's his girlfriend considering the way they act around each other. I don't have a clue what her name is, but she's stunning up next to Trippy, and they are certainly a strange couple. Her perfectly straightened golden hair and starry green eyes are a stark contrast to Trippy's zit-ridden face and oily black hair that nearly covered his eyes. No matter how much I see them together, they never seem very..._real_. It was almost like their relationship that I think exists is just a shield for what's actually going on, but I never thought much about it.

The three people to my left are one of the reasons I chose talking to Carly instead of anyone else...the Bitch Squad itself! The trio consisted of Tara, Katelyn, and alpha dog Veronica, none of who I would converse with if my life depended on it. I felt like dying enough just being witness to some of the retarded conversations they have about clothes and boys, but I do often feel like joining in when they bash Freddie Benson when he's not in hearing distance.

Speaking of which, I really hate that the kid even came back at all.

"Hey Sam," Carly calls across the table, and I realize that I love the way my name sounds coming from her, even though I hate my name with a passion. It's so...average. And I'm not average, I'm Sam. "You should come sit over here," she offers. Freddie's eyes immediately widen, and visibly wants to protest, but Carly shoots him a poison warning glare. But he doesn't need to fight her, because there is _no way in Hell_ I'm sitting next to that boy. He's done enough damage just existing.

"That's okay," I say, despite really wanting to sit by her, glancing at a relieved Freddie. But it's almost like the girl can see through me already, and trust me, that's not easily done.

"Seriously," she insists, perfect pink lips smiling away. _Wait, what the fuck am I thinking?_ The thought scares me, and now I want my space. But she's all but pouting at me, and despite my intestines rolling themselves in knots, I give in, hauling my bright blue plastic chair to the other side of the table and placing it next to hers, the metal legs crashing on the fake tile floor.

"Yay!" Carly exclaims with a smile that's so cute, I find myself blushing.

Sam doesn't blush.

By the second marking period of school, Carly and I have become close...beautifully so, in the sense that I've definitely driven Freddie to jealousy. In fact, I'm certain the kid hates me, and I love that. I love being hated, to an extent. It makes you feel powerful, in a twisted sort of way.

Our now-beloved Art class is half over, and our pencil and marker drawings are almost completed. I'm starting to feel some serious depression just thinking about not having Art, even though before having this class I claimed that I hated this kind of subject. I'm pretty sure Carly has something to do with that.

Our friendship has since expanded past first period, and we quickly found ourselves walking the halls together and passing notes (and occasionally bacon). I even paid a nub fifty bucks to trade lockers with me so I could have his next to Carly's, because he wouldn't take twenty. That proved to be one of the best fifty bucks I'd ever spent. Not only did it give me ample reason to be late to half of my classes, but it gave me ample reason to be late because I was too busy talking to Carly to even hear the bell ring.

Even I'll admit, there's something weird about the way that girl affects me, but then again, I've never really had an awesome friend like her. She kind of understands me, and that's definitely a rarity. And Carly was the last person I'd have ever expected it from.

I'm standing at my locker shoving some textbooks into my locker with careless fury when Carly runs up to me all beaming with smile, and the way her eyes sparkle makes me smile too.

"What's up with you?" I inquire, no longer trying to hide my smile. We stand there grinning like idiots for a few very purely perfect moments before she answers.

"Someone just sent me a really funny video of a talking corn dog," she explains. "Wanna see it?" I nod, and Carly's deep brown eyes dart around, scanning the area for patrolling teachers. The hall seems full of them. She makes a beeline for the nearest girls' bathroom, walking much faster than I can even run. She turns her head to look at me with a 'Hurry up!' glance, before grabbing my hand and placing it firmly in hers.

The sensation sends me into absolute shock. And that's literally what it feels like, a shock. It was like holding onto a live electric fence, and the spark shoots up my arm and lodges itself firmly in my gut. This feeling scares me, and I yank my hand away in fear that Carly would feel it too. We walk into the bathroom and she looks at me confusedly; studies my face and I'm sure she can see leftover fear there. Without saying anything, she whips out her cell phone and pulls up the video.

"So, I was thinking," Carly starts, scribbling away and causing the table to wobble behind her barrier of a purse, because I'm still not allowed to see her drawing. "You should come over to my place Friday." I feel the familiar bumblebees in my stomach just thinking about it.

"Sounds great," I blurt, like it's nothing, when it's obviously not. It's a huge step in the good direction. "What are we gonna do?" I'm sketching in the face of agony on the mommy bacon as I bite into its greasy, meaty goodness.

"I don't know," she says, shrugging. "Whatever you want, I guess. We could paint nails and watch chick flicks." I drop my marker and raise an eyebrow at her. She grins, eyes not leaving her drawing.

"You mean, vandalize the city and sneak into zombie thriller movies?"

"Yeah, that could work too," Carly replies, and I can't tell if she's being sarcastic or not. Meanwhile, Freddie has successfully disappeared, angrily mashing his colored pencil into the paper on the other side of Carly. I can't help the stupid smile that graces my face, because everything is exactly like I wanted it, and everything is as it should be. Carly and I are finally friends, Freddie's alone and losing it mentally, Trippy and his girlfriend are making out on the other end of the table, and the Bitch Squad is whispering about the size of his man parts.

The rest of the week drags its ass, all because of my grand event planned for Friday. By the time that day comes, I'm beaming with happiness when I walk through the previously-hated Ridgeway doors, lugging my duffel bag full of more clothes and personal items than I probably need for a one-night stay. I quickly shove it into my already full locker, cramming the door shut and turning around to run off to Art.

And that's when I come face to face with a very pissed looking Freddie Benson.

"What do you want?" I practically spit at him.

"Look, I don't know what you're trying to do here, but you better back off," he says with amazing strength for his size and masculinity. I snort. "I mean it, Sam. Or else--"

"Yeah? Or else what? You don't know me Benson, so don't even pretend you do. You don't know my motives, and you definitely can't punch harder than me, so I suggest _you _back off." Freddie looks defeated, but keeps standing his ground. God, he's an idiot.

"I love her," he croaks weakly, like it's even a secret.

"Me too, but we're both gonna have to--" My words stop themselves as his jaw drops a few feet. What the _fuck _did I just say? I most definitely don't _love_ the girl. Just a minor slip of the tongue. Problem is, you can't take words back. "Shit," I mutter, because by the look on his face, I can tell he's gonna run straight to Carly and tell her.

Before he can say a word, I'm running faster than I ever have in my life to the Art room. I probably should have denied it. Yeah, that would have helped my situation.

Halfway through Art class, I still can't get those fucking stupid words out of my head. Even worse is the way Freddie keeps glancing at me with knowing eyes. He shouldn't know anything. _I said 'Me too.' So I love her too? No way. There's no way I do. I like guys. Big, strong, cute guys...I'm Sam, I'm tougher than most of the guys I know. So why would I even go for a fragile, soft...girl?_

Carly's eyes bore into mine, even though she only swipes a glance across my face, but I'm instantly paralyzed with the thought that she might _know_. But she doesn't, I know that, because I got here much earlier than Freddie, because I ran. I ran for, literally, my life. She's become such a big part of me in just over a month; I can't stand the thought of losing her already. I frustratedly put in dashes of grass at my feet in my bacon drawing, breaking the Lawn Green crayon in the process. Carly smiles at my typical, random display of anger, probably because it's such a Sam thing to do.

"So, did you figure out what we're going to do tonight?" she asks out of the blue, and I freeze, because I haven't. I've been caught up in way too many other emotions to even begin to think about anything else.

"Um...nails and chick flicks sound good," I state absently as I continue grassing up my drawing. Her eyebrows knit in the middle.

"But...you're Sam." I shrug.

"Gotta be a girl at some point, I guess. You could turn me girly tonight or something." Carly's eyes light up like fireworks at my words, and we both break into beautiful smiles. I catch a glimpse of Freddie's stupid grin over Carly's shoulder, and mine is immediately gone. The bell is near ringing, and so Carly runs her secret masterpiece over to the cubby holes for storage before either of us can see it. Freddie uses this moment to his advantage.

"I won't tell Carly," he begins. His eyes are brown, but they look like poop. "If..." I sigh dramatically. Here we go. "...you be nice to me." I stare at him, blinking.

"I'd much rather she knew," I admitted, meaning every word of it. Carly makes her way back over to her chair.

"Hey Carly, you'll never guess what Sam told m---" he starts, and despite my claims of rather Freddie telling her, I burst into compliment from a sudden onset of panic attack.

"Freddie, have I told you how good your hair looks today?" I grip his head by the hair and pull him in for a good long sniff, inhaling what smells like rubber cement and shaving cream. "God, that's good stuff. I wish every guy had hair as good as yours!" I say with the fakest smile on my face, but he buys it.

"Thanks." he says bluntly, the most evil of looks playing in his eyes. I cringe inwardly. Carly looks pleasantly confused. Man, this sucks.

"Sam, this is my brother Spencer," Carly introduces me, and I'm about to shake his outstretched hand in un-Sam-like politeness when I realize it's covered in a strange combination of what looks like flour and clumps of...I don't even want to know. He looks down at his hand and laughs.

"Paper mache lobster," he begins to explain, but Carly rolls her eyes and tugs me up the stairs to her room, which could not be more stereotypically teenage girl. It's a bright turquoise color, slapped with posters of shirtless celebrity males on the beach, hair blowing in the wind. I set my duffel bag next to her bed and find myself taking in the smell. It reminds me of vanilla...no, it reminds me of Carly. I mentally shoot myself for being such a fucking creeper.

"Have you ever been to the Groovy Smoothie?" she asks, even though no matter what my answer was, I knew we were going there. My answer was no, and before I could object, we were out the door of her apartment. And who else to find there than Freddie Benson?

"Oh, hey, Freddie!" Carly says cheerfully, and he waves back. I refuse to make eye contact.

"Going to the Groovy Smoothie?" he questions, as if it's not creepy that he knows exactly where we're going.

"Of course. Wanna come?" I groan just soft enough that she doesn't hear, but he does. _Please say no!_ I pray, but he says quite the opposite. I bite my lip until I taste blood so I don't punch him, because Carly can't know about my little slip-up. That would be my death on a silver platter.

Carly suggests the Blueberry Blitz, and I order the biggest size the place offers, to keep my mouth occupied on a straw instead of on spewing insults at Freddie's face. Therefore, the lack of speaking makes for a very quiet smoothie session. In other news, finding the smoothie was like finding Jesus for me. I almost considered getting another, until everyone finished shortly after me. We sit and talk about nose hairs before realizing how late it had gotten, and cross the street back to the Bushwell Plaza.

After a short elevator ride, we find ourselves at Carly's door, and Freddie's _finally_ saying goodbye. This moment is far better than finding smoothies, until he goes and ruins it.

"See you later," he says like he actually will, and touches her arm, lovingly. Being the nice person she is, Carly smiles back and seemingly ignores his hand on her. I'd have knocked the kid straight to another planet by now, it it were me, and even though it's not, for some reason, every muscle in my body tenses up in defense.

"Seeya," she replies with a smile, and they both turn to their apartment doors, unlocking them and leaving me in the middle wondering what's wrong with me.

It's seven minutes into the chick flick I really didn't want to watch, and I already want to stab my eyes out. A girl likes a guy, but figures he's out of her league and she doesn't want to talk to him. They'll probably end up the perfect couple within the next hour.

I'm so bored, I start comparing this movie to my life, especially when the hot cheerleader who actually has a chance with him comes into the scene and tells the girl to back off. I almost laugh at this point, but I don't, because this movie is in no way a metaphor for my life, because I don't like anyone, and I _especially_ don't like Carly.

Except the way her leg is brushing mine, propped up on the coffee table. I kind of like that, because hey, I have a decent friend, and that solidifies that.

"This movie's jank," I say, even though it's a seriously obvious statement.

"Yeah," Carly agrees. "Wanna go do something else?" she asks, even though it's already getting pretty late. I nod, and we jog up the set of stairs and back into her room, plopping down onto her comforter and lying on our backs, doing nothing more than smile and stare at her ceiling. It's really not that interesting. Carly sits up, and I do the same, awkwardly tapping my fingers on my thigh.

"It's...it's okay, you know," Carly stutters out of nowhere, and I look at her in confusion. She catches my gaze, biting her lip. "If you..." her voice drops to a whisper, "...like me, I mean." My heart just about explodes in its cage of a chest, beating out of control. No, it's _not_ okay! _She can't know_! How...

"How did you find out?" I ask, not even bothering to deny the feelings I was just now starting to figure out I felt. "Was it Freddie?" Carly chuckles under her breath.

"No, nobody told me." She tells me, eyes sparkling. "I always knew." I started feeling really, really dumb at this point. Really, really dumb, and totally clueless to what had been going on. Had I always felt this way, and not noticed it? Am I really that unaware to what goes on in my subconscious? Really?

"...how?" I wonder aloud, barely even wanting to know the answer.

"Because..." Carly explains, voice dropping somewhere I'd never heard it go before, "The way you look at me...it's the same way Chanel looks at Trippy..." She moves her hand onto my left knee, and starts its ascent. "And it's the same way I look at you." Her mouth is way too close to my ear. I can hear her breathe. Enter panic attack. I stare at the hand moving its way up, and attempt to distract her.

"Hey, what a great time for manicures. Your nail polish is all chippy..."

"Shut up, Sam."

That's all she says. That's all she says, and then Carly is doing something I never could have dreamed up via fantasy. Her thumb is stroking my inner thigh very close to dangerous territory, and her other hand makes its way through a curtain of curls, cupping the back of my head and not letting me pull away from her. And for once in my life, I let myself get completely taken over.

_I felt the cold rain off the coming storm..._


	4. An Armslength Away

_All because of you, I haven't slept in so long,_

_When I do, I dream I'm drowning in the ocean..._

The slightest undertone of pineapple reaches my tastebuds as Carly's lips slide over mine, and even though it's subtle, the taste overpowers every part of me. And while I came to expect the fireworks or otherwise orgasmic feelings to come from this kiss, it's just lips and tongues and...perfect, no pyro needed. My brain is completely fried beyond making rational decisions; every part of me has suddenly grown a mind of its own. My muscles tense and relax like they can't decide whether or not the situation is threatening. My better judgment to stop and ask what's going on goes out the window when her delicate hand drags my jaw open, and I surrender to the intruding tongue. The battle inside my mouth rages on, and every part of what's going on sends me into complete overload. The tickle of her tongue on the roof of my mouth, the way we're practically molded together, and the constant brush of her hand on my thigh completely takes me over. Carly's hand slides from its place on my jaw, over my collarbone before gracing itself across my chest, feeling the gentle but rapid heartbeat beneath my ribs, before moving behind my back and pulling until our bodies are pressed flush against each other. The few layers of clothes between our skin immediately drive me crazy.

Her soft lips disconnect from mine, trailing across my jaw and slipping onto my heated neck. They latch on there, sucking and pulling gently, causing me to take a sharp intake of shared oxygen and the blood to rush from my head to other regions of my body. It's then that I feel teeth make their mark there, and my back arches on its own accord. My voice similarly lets out a feral sound on its own, which snaps me back to reality. I'm in Carly's bed and she's chewing on my neck without any reason, seemingly, and this has to stop or there's going to be imminent heartbreak. And if I opened my heart to anyone, there's no way in Hell I'm going to let it break. I put my hands on Carly's shoulders and push her away as gently as I can muster, and she takes the hint, moving back to my face and pressing her forehead against mine, love obviously sparkling in her eyes. Her hot breath plays on my lips, and the beauty of the moment makes me smile.

"So uh, what's this all about?" I whisper, and brown eyes dart away from mine.

"Sam...will you...go out with me?" she asks, and I can feel the sincerity in her voice, but there's some other feeling I just can't place that's hiding behind her words. And while I should be jumping around and pumping a fist in the air with glee because in the end,_ this is what I wanted_, this is just way too fast for me, if that's even possible.

"I dunno, Carls. Isn't this a little...fast?" I inquire, and she hesitates before nodding sadly.

"Yeah, yeah, you're right," she whispers almost inaudibly, thumbing my cheek in obvious love through what is definitely disappointment. "Do you want to...keep going?" One half of my brain screams for us to throw the brakes on this ride, but my hormones say otherwise and I end up nodding. I can almost _feel_ the smile that breezes against her face before she leans back in, recapturing my lips in a gracious kiss. Then she's ripping my shirt at the buttons with a sharp tug, throwing it from my shoulders and taking my camisole in her grip. I raise my arms above my head, and it's yanked off without another word, leaving me exposed and feeling vulnerable, but Carly soon makes up for it and removes her own shirt. My heart nearly breaks from my chest and the sight before me, and I'm totally breathless. I assume that I'm one of the few to ever see Carly clad in only a small black bra and tight blue skinny jeans, hair disheveled with stars in her eyes as she moves in to resume her place on my neck, eliciting quite the excited noise from me. She giggles innocently and scoots closer on my lap until the naked skin of our stomachs are brushing. The light feather of smooth skin makes my need triple in half a second flat.

Following nothing more than what feels right, I reach behind Carly and struggle to unclasp her bra, which eventually gives. She takes her mouth from my neck for a moment, biting her lip and staring into my eyes with hers uncertain. I smile at her in reassurance, solidifying everything we are, before I gently tug on the straps, allowing them to fall down her arms before the unwanted item is tossed across the room. Neither of us know what to do at this point; I can tell the way we do nothing more than stare into each other's hesitant eyes. Carly works on my own less flattering purple bra, slipping the straps from my shoulders and undoing the clasp before throwing mine into the quickly enlarging pile of clothes. We spend a few moments just staring at each other's newly exposed skin, suddenly trusting each other with it for unexplainable reasons.

"Lay down, Sammie," she whispers, and I do so, laying my head softly on her pillow, my heart never slowing down. Carly climbs above me on hands and knees like a tentative kitten, obviously knowing what she was doing about as much as I do. My hair fans out from around my face, and she wraps a curl of mine around her finger and tugs lovingly, causing my heart to flutter like a bird in a cage, and the word _love _flashes in my mind for what is probably the first time in my life, but I chase it away as soon as it appears there, scared at what could happen if those kind of thoughts progressed. Blue eyes stare into brown with an unreadable expression scribbled into them. I've had my share of experience in the thought-reading department, as is necessary for my basic survival in life, and behind the mask she thinks I can't see through, excitement sparkles and insecurities growl. But above all, Carly doesn't know what to do next, and that shines through her blank face the most. I take advantage of this situation and lean myself upwards, stealing her perfect lips in mine as my mind raced.

Then Carly's hands have suddenly made their way south, and they're fumbling with the button on my jeans, and _holy shit_, we're doing this. The next thing I know, I'm completely naked except for the boy shorts hanging loosely from my waist, and I'm starting to be scared to death, Carly's lips on mine offering slight comfort. Nonetheless, my Sam-itute prevails, and I swallow through the fear, copying her previous motions and playing with the metal button on her skinny jeans. My nerves have exploded in the past few minutes, and my hands are shaking uncontrollably, causing a simple button to morph into a complex puzzle.

"Shit," I mutter obscenely, pulling away from the kiss. Carly chuckles breathlessly at my struggle with her jeans, glowing with the simple fact that _she did this to me_. I let my hands drop from her pants with a frustrated grunt, never one to be defeated, and apparently, not even in bed, but I hate being so exposed alone. Carly gladly slides the dark blue fabric from her legs, and I watch in awe as the material wrinkles and gives way to miles of soft, milky skin that makes my stomach feel like I just ate a really rancid steak, in a good way. I grasp the legs of the jeans and help her finally slide them off completely, leaving me with a perfect view of nothing but pure Carly Shay and some mildly inappropriate underwear that makes me smirk a little. She's obviously a lot more confident than I am without clothes to hide in, and letting my eyes scan the newly-charted skin in front of me, I decide that she has every reason to be.

Gulping in what could possibly be classified as trepidation, I make my way in her direction, setting myself gently onto her bare lap. The sensation of the smooth skin of her thighs sliding against mine sends a shiver up my spine, and I sit there motionless for a moment, just enjoying the moment while it lasts, enjoying the way heat is radiating from her body in a way I never quite noticed before, enjoying the way her eyes darken and twinkle with emotion that's almost too good to be true.

"You okay with this?" Carly asks quietly, and my insides kind of melt when she says this, because no one's put this much care into me before, not even my own mother. And then she takes my trembling hand and links her fingers with mine, and it feels more right than it probably should.

"Our hands fit together," I state off-topic, staring at our perfectly molded skin, and she smiles at this despite the fact that I didn't exactly answer her question.

"A lot of parts of us fit together," Carly whispers, and then my melting insides fizzle up and evaporate completely, ceasing to exist, but leaving me anything but empty. She brushes my cheek with the pad of her thumb and asks me again, "Is this okay, Sam? I don't want you regretting anything." I nod, because I'm mostly incapable of words by this point, and she grins at me before I see her face floating toward mine. It becomes blurry from the decrease in distance, and I submit to her sweet poison once again.

My stomach tenses underneath Carly's gliding palm, and then it's joined by another, and the pair ascend over my ribcage that I press into her hands for more contact, like it's the oxygen I'm breathing...or not. She hesitates there, so I press further, silently begging, and Carly continues, hands meeting their mark and sliding and creating beautiful friction. I mirror her actions, pretending I have the slightest clue of what I'm doing, and I must be pretty convincing judging by the way her breathing patterns are changing and hitching. A slightly unfamiliar burning starts between my thighs from listening to her breathe. My own breathing is modified, and my heart beats with renewed vigor as I watch Carly pull away and sit up, hand once again slipping its way up my now bare thigh, causing me to gulp in anticipation and possible fear because it's not stopping this time. Her fingers enter the crook of my thigh, tracing the line of my boyshorts up and across my stomach, leaving me squirming and the burning doubling over and over again. I feel French-manicured nails brush their way inside the top seam of the pinstripes before gently tugging, but I grab her wrist and make her stop. Carly's eyes flick up to me questioningly.

"...sorry I didn't shave," I mutter quite unladylike and rather embarrassed, and Carly giggles in what sounds a little like relief.

"Do you really think I care?" she asks in return, easing the garment over my hips. I lift them without thinking twice. "Besides, you couldn't have known this was going to happen." My boyshorts travel down to my knees and then to my shins and then they're gone and I'm completely naked and God, Carly's right. I decide I've got much more important things to focus on, especially because I don't know when this will happen again.

_If it ever happens again_, my subconscious whispers subtly, and I mentally punish my brain for thinking of such a thing at a time like this, because – "Oh fuck," I say, out loud apparently, because Carly grins at my obscenity, fingers suddenly doing things I never imagined they could do. And as great as it immediately is, I can tell she's relatively clueless, and I hold her wrist again and guide her, feeling _extremely_ exposed as she studies my facial expressions to gauge how well she's doing. In about fifteen seconds flat she's got my hips jerking on their own accord, and I let her go on her own, head rolling on her pillow that's engulfing me with the vanilla scent of her hair and fists clenching and unclenching, clutching desperately at the loosely-hanging sheets. Her attack on my body and brain and _heart_ remains relentless, and she climbs her way back up to my face, never stopping, as her lips reclaim mine in a solemn reminder that this is actually love, and not something much simpler. Carly manages to hit some button I didn't know I had, and I find myself pulling her jaw open with a shaking hand and immediately slipping her a meaningful tongue and meeting an equally loving one half way.

And suddenly I think I've got to show her just how good she's doing, slipping my own hand down the front of her underwear before I have the chance to hesitate, and Carly's breath catches in her throat, though her lips never stop their sweet torture, nor do her fingers as my own begin their maiden voyage. I'm not blaming her for being a little ignorant anymore, because even though I have girl parts, it's a lot more difficult to do this on someone else, under pressure and half drunk on your own feelings, so I blindly rub and pray I'm doing something right. And apparently this prayer works, because a noise rumbles in the back of Carly's throat that might as well have been a roar in the silence of her turquoise room. The sound is so beautiful, I repeat my previous actions harder, getting a similar result, and she duplicates my movements, sending me into a sudden upward spiral. I detach my lips from hers in order to _breathe_, and now_ teeth_ are finding my shoulder and that's all I need to tip off the edge of that spiral. My vision goes gray and the edges sparkle and a tingle starts at my fingers and toes and travels up my body in wave after wave, and my entire body tenses with each shiver of pleasure, and then I'm limp and struggling to regain lost oxygen, exhausted. A few moments later, Carly does the same, knees failing her as she collapses on me with a breathless sigh, as we lay there together completely aflutter and aglow.

"That was..." Carly starts, but she can't find an appropriate adjective, and neither can I.

"Yeah," I agree with her lack of description, grinning like an idiot with nothing but pure peace.

"So...how long?" she asks out of the blue.

"How long?" I repeat dumbly, mind still foggy.

"Y'know...how long do you need? ...to decide? ...about us?" Carly stumbles around her words, reminding me a lot of myself on Ambien. I mentally chuckle at the realization that as long as this girl still has fingers, I'll never need any kind of drug, ever again. "You said it was too soon..." I shrug.

"I guess it just doesn't feel like the right time yet," I attempt to explain. "But of course I'll tell you when...I wouldn't be naked and sweaty in your bed right now if I didn't feel _something_, right?" I'm smiling and she's smiling and yeah, we're pretty naked, and sweaty too.

Carly leans over to her carpet and tosses me my half of the clothes pile, and we dress silently and quickly, still beaming. And when we both settle into her comforter and I feel her figure pressed protectively against my back, I can't help the words that escape my mouth.

"We fit together..."

_Longing for the shore, where I can lay my head down_

_I'll follow your voice, all you have to do is shout it out..._


	5. Tabula Rasa

_Inside my hands these petals browned_

_Dried up, fallen to the ground..._

It's Monday morning. And I know the old cliché that Mondays are horrible and everyone hates them, but as the Ridgeway doors swing open to greet me as if I'm queen of everything, I kind of feel that way. The halls are bustling, and every peer I pass bows down at my entrance, or at least, they should. A few prideful steps later, I'm listening to the clang of my locker as I open it and load my bag onto its proper hook, itching with anxiety at seeing the girl that had stolen my conscious mind for almost every second of the weekend. Slamming the drab grey metal door, I make my way to the Art room with my strides abnormally lengthened. My fingers are itching and my heart is pumping as the turpentine fumes reach my eager nose, and very soon after, I catch sight of an ever-perky Ms. Peterson standing like a statue in the doorway of the room, saying good morning to students as they walk by. I'm kind of disheartened at seeing her, because that means she's gotten over her swine flu and we're going to have to actually do _art_ now.

"Good morning, Puckett," Ms. Peterson greets me, rather annoyingly so, because she's interrupting my entrance to the class that I'm _dying_ to go to. "You're not here ten minutes late...are you okay?" she jokes, and I shrug, knowing just how okay I am, before quickly spotting Carly at our familiar spot on the far side of the wooden table. I quickly mumble a total lie including my mother's car before shuffling over to our seat.

I plop into the bright blue plastic seat, my hair immediately infused with static electricity and clinging to everything in reachable distance, but it's the last thing on my mind. Carly's near-black hair frames her face in half-assed curls, perfect curves of eyebrows raising to catch sight of my face. She smiles weakly at me with pink glossed lips, and I do the same. She's wearing a plain black fitted tee and ripped light jeans that make me mentally bite my lip at the now-familiar sight of the tanned skin on her upper thigh. It's then that I notice something peculiar on her left wrist.

"Is that a...gay pride wristband?" I inquire, amused grin threatening to play on my mouth. Carly blushes a little and vainly tries to hide the item, but eventually sighs.

"Yes..." she says with a groan, "But I'm not gay," Carly quickly adds in as a hushed whisper, and I can't tell if she's sarcastic or not. The way she's looking at me is pretty convincing that she's serious, and that definitely confuses me. Suddenly, I'm not so sure if I should be playing dumb like nothing went down on Friday night or not. I'm about to ask her for further details on the 'gay' subject before, simultaneously, the bell rings and Freddie walks in, stealing his seat on the other side of Carly along with her attention for the next half of the class. And I'm very annoyed now, because she's my sorta-kinda-girlfriend, and sorta-kinda-mine. I fold my arms up on the table and slam my chin on them with an irritated sigh, illiciting a scoff from the Bitch Squad to our right because I just about brought the wobbly old table down.

Ms. Peterson trots into the room, announcing her comeback from a crippling disease as if she were some type of hero for doing so. It's hard for me to believe that the class loves her as much as they do, because I sure don't, but that's typically my relationship with most authority anyway. She then tells us we'll be continuing our work on our drawings, but she'll actually be coming around the room to give us pointers. I groan rather audibly, moving to rest my forehead on my arms, enjoying the darkness. Everyone gets up to retrieve their pieces from their cubby holes, and I hesitate, suddenly not exactly loving this class. But then, I feel the gentle tickle of telltale French manicured nails between my shoulder blades, and next thing I know, I'm following Carly like a puppy to get my drawing.

xxxxx

"That's very...interesting, Sam," Ms. Peterson compliments me with a painful look on her face, "It really shows your...character." She then moves to Carly's place, eyes immediately frozen with what looks to me like awe. "Carly!" she exclaims in typical flamboyancy, hand over her mouth, "That's...wow! I love your assortment of mediums in this piece. Spectacular work, Miss Shay! Would you mind if I displayed it outside the room when it's complete?" Carly shakes her head ever-so-polite, and Ms. Peterson grins in obvious joy. I hear her mutter a few critical words at Freddie's artwork before moving along to where Chanel and Trippy sat, reminding them about the school's public displays of affection policy, before remarking that Trippy's drawing was absolutely inappropriate.

"When can I see yours?" I ask Carly innocently, but she readjusts her purse barrier to further block my eyes from spying.

"When it's done," she replies bluntly, returning to her conversation with Freddie. My eyebrows crease in confusion; did I say something wrong? Does she hate me for what happened? I want to drill into her brain more than anything right now, but I go with my instinct to let her calm down and go back to work on my drawing.

And now, I can't help but notice, my cartoon Sam is in complete bliss at the taste of succulent, greasy bacon, while the mommy bacon is in nothing less than agony.

xxxxx

I'm standing at my locker once again, and Carly is slumped against the one next to mine, hugging her books across her chest like they're all she has and staring into a faraway corner of the hallway. I'm about to work the latch on my locker, but I grit my teeth and grow some balls in record time.

"Carly," I start, successfully causing her eyes to flick into mine, "You okay?" She nods, but it couldn't be more of an obvious lie. "Did I say something?" she shakes her head. "Do anything?" shakes her head. "Then how come you're being like this?"

"I'm fine," Carly mumbles, an obvious lie, turning her head to continue her staring contest with the opposite wall, looking pale and...fragile.

"You're not," I reciprocate, "So maybe I've only known you for, like, six months, but I think I know when you're not okay." Her eyes squeeze shut almost painfully, and she takes a big, shuddering gulp of air.

"Sam, let's just...forget this, okay?" she whispers with eyes still closed, like someone is controlling her vocal cords and she doesn't really mean what she's saying, meanwhile, things are clicking in my mind and I'm panicking. No way, Carly is easily the best thing to ever happen to me, and I am _not_ fucking losing her, especially after what just happened, and not like this.

"I can't, Carls, I--"

"It was a _mistake_," she spits loud enough for half the school to hear, and the word mistake comes out thorny and painful and makes a beeline straight for my heart. It's then that I realize Carly has tears beginning to spill out of her reddening eyes, and she turns on her heels to walk away, but I can't let her do that when there's still so much explaining needed. I reach out and grab her rainbow-covered left wrist and pull her back to me, a little harder than I had meant to.

She gasps and whimpers just loud enough to hear, staring at me in completely paralyzing fear.

She gasped and whimpered.

I didn't pull her _that _hard.

Things add up much more quickly than they usually do in my mind, my heart slowly coming up into my throat, and before she can pull away, I'm sliding the wristband up her arm, my stomach suddenly twisting over and over again.

Carly's left wrist looked like Spencer had a very angry night with only a tube of red paint available.

I want to throw up at the fact that she had more wounds than skin.

She yanks her arm from my grip, eyes wide with fear, taking a few steps back and putting her wristband back in its place. Her skin said everything that needed to be said, and so she dashes off in the direction of her next class. A few moments later, the bell rings, each tone like a brick slowly dropping into my chest, as I stand in the empty Ridgeway halls, the complete opposite of what I had felt this morning. I'm alone and these halls are pretty big, but my guilt is enough to cause them to burst at the seams.

I reluctantly grab my tattered algebra book from my locker, listening to the lonely echoes of the clang, and take a left turn even though my algebra class is directly to my right.

I need a walk.

xxxxx

I sit in algebra after coming in twenty-five minutes late, surprised I even came at all, but I wordlessly took the detention slip. My tense, balled-up fist supports my head, elbow on my book that really should be opened. I run my eyes along the familiar line of rips and tears at its edge, using this otherwise useless time to figure out what I should do. The teacher continues on about distance formulas and coordinate planes, while my head spins with thoughts of curling up in a hole and dying. The kids around me are fervently scratching away in their notebooks, while I desperately fight away tears. Sam doesn't cry, ever, but the stinging in the corners of my eyes state otherwise.

"Puckett!" the teacher screeches, his booming voice abruptly awakening me. "Open your book and answer number four for me."

I grit my teeth and remain stationary in my position, my muscles tensing and untensing in preparation for an impending fight that very well may happen. Triangles and shit are the _last _thing I care about right now, and I'd gladly take out a teacher in this frame of mind.

"I mean it; do you want to go see Principal Franklin?" he threatens a few seconds later after I show no sign of interest. A shaky sigh escapes me, because I'd really rather not deal with anything right now. I lift my eyes to my overweight algebra teacher, barely smiling at the way his neck fat jiggles when he's angry like I usually would. He sees the way I'm holding back tears, he must, because his face softens. "Dear god, Puckett, you look like death," he says quietly, and I nod, feeling similar.

"Can I go...somewhere?" I slur, not even sure where I want to go, but he nods sympathetically, something I rarely see directed at me, and I silently gather my things, walking out amidst the millions of eyes watching me in that room. And as I turn the knob to leave, all at once, the tears I've been holding back fly from my eyes, an absolutely foreign feeling as they burn my cheeks.

The Sam spirit has been broken. It's been broken in half, and everyone just witnessed it like the death of a celebrity.

xxxxx

I spent the majority of the next two periods sitting in the handicapped stall of the nearest bathroom, hiding under the sink between the pipes and the wall, knees curled up to my chest. I stare blankly at the very stained fake tile floor, a random tear finding its way out every now and then. I've cried so long, I can't even breathe anymore, and this is so beyond normal I can hardly comprehend it. Nobody has ever even hurt me, let alone make me cry, not even my own sorry excuse for a mother when she came home in a drunken rage and broke Melanie's right arm and told her how much she hated her and was a failure and that she might as well kill herself now. Then she called her Sam. Melanie had almost taken her advice, and would have had I not talked her out of it, but the words never reached further than my ears.

My breath catches in my throat as a sobbing hiccup when I realize that I'll have to go home to that now, forever, because I can't run and hide in Carly's apartment anymore. I clutch my ball of toilet paper and run it across my face again, which has slowly eroded itself into little shreds and slivers of what it once was. I toss it into the adjacent toilet along with the other seven or so that met a similar fate, and reach for the dwindling roll.

xxxxx

By the time I look decent enough to return to class, it's time for science and I'm beyond drained. I drag myself there, taking my usual place at one of the lab tables in the back of the room because they way overbooked this class. Trippy sits next to me, one of the few times of the day he can be found without Chanel trailing behind him, or basically on top of him. He immediately notices the change in the Sam spirit.

"Sup with you?" he asks me, eyes barely visible through his thick, dark wave of hair.

"Nothing," I mumble, because there's no way I could ever explain something like this to _anyone_. It was supposed to be a secret. Trippy laughs at me.

"You're so obvious, you know that?" I shrug, uncaring. "We haven't talked in forever."

"Yeah," I reply bleakly.

"A year or something," he continues, licking his chapped lips. His eyes dart downward momentarily, and I pull my shirt up a little in annoyance.

"Something like that." I grumble back, remembering back to the darker days of my life, ones that shine with some kind of heavenly light compared to now. I could definitely go for some Valium at this point, preferably something even stronger. "You going out with Chanel?" I ask in cheap conversation, just wanting to get out of my current state of mind.

He smiles in a far-off way that makes my insides curl up a little. "Yeah," he drawls out ever-so-satisfied. "She's great." I wonder exactly what he meant by that.

"How did you manage _that_?" Trippy cackles.

"Well, y'know how girls go...you gotta have what they want!"

I look past the outer shell of that statement's definition, and I wonder...what did I possibly have that Carly wanted?

xxxxxxx

_These were mostly short little drabbles of life sans-Carly. :d Hope that wasn't too terribly boring; it'll pick up big time in the next chapter or two._

_Remember, reviews are the wood that stoke a writer's creative fire! ;D I mean, how long would it take you to drop a line and say 'Hey, that was good. More please!'?_

_Thanks for reading.3_


	6. Friction

_I pushed my fingers through the earth,_

_Returned this flower to the dirt..._

The bright blue plastic chair beneath me is uncharacteristically uncomfortable, and so very unwelcoming. I'm still sitting on Carly's right side in art class despite the fact that she hasn't so much as glanced in my general direction since finding her little secret hiding beneath her gay pride wristband. If she's still wearing it today, it's hidden beneath the sleeves of her oversized black hoodie that she's hiding away in. She doesn't talk at all, actually, isolating herself from both me and Freddie. The three of us probably look absolutely miserable; pencils and markers and crayons sadly rubbing away on the paper before us. This emotion kills me, this sadness, and I feel like an absolute pussy wallowing in it the way we all are, because it's a weakness, and it makes me soft, and it's unacceptable in the Sam spirit.

"'Kay, Carls, I'm sick of this," I state, slamming my sky blue crayon on the wooden table. The Bitch Squad angrily eyeballs me as the table wobbles from the impact. The sad blue thundercloud that's been raining on us suddenly stops, but no sun exactly shines through, except for everyone at the entire table turning to watch the unfolding drama. "What the hell is up?" I demand, drawing out every syllable so that she cannot possibly misunderstand. Carly's eyes dart around, not looking for an answer, but looking for a way out of answering, but everyone is staring, and she cracks under pressure, biting her lip over and over again.

"I'm sorry, I'm just--" she sighs, eyes fluttering closed, before she painfully restarts in a voice almost quieter than a whisper. "Can we talk about this somewhere more...alone?" I end up nodding, and we quickly conjure up a plan that involves Carly going to the bathroom and me sneaking out, because I'm the more sneaky one. Freddie is noticeably annoyed as she walks up to Ms. Peterson, filled-out hall pass in hand.

"You've already lost her, you know," he mutters one chair away, and while it should have hit me in the gut, it barely even phases me. I shrug.

"Is she bi-polar or something?"

"Not even close...what'd you do to her?"

I scoff. "Are you that stupid, nub? All we did was--" I stop myself mid-sentence, realizing it was impossible to explain this to anyone, especially someone like Freddie. I groan and rub my eyes, and when I reopen them, he's got a smirk on his face and Carly's on her way out the door. I wait for Ms. Peterson to engross herself in her neon purple laptop before I quietly slip out of the art room unseen.

xxxxx

I find Carly in the same bathroom I hid in during algebra class yesterday, smoothing her hair in the mirror of the handicapped stall. I enter it with her, latching the door shut behind me and taking a seat on the cold and uninviting toilet, the farthest available place away from her. She continues patting on foundation and otherwise ignoring my presence. I clear my throat, and she barely blinks.

"So...we're somewhere more alone," I start, pulling my knees to their familiar place at my chest and planting my Converses on the toilet seat, preparing myself for the brunt of the storm. "What's up?" Carly steps back away from the mirror and spins around, admiring her own ass in her dark blue jeans. I swallow.

"I'm...having second thoughts," she says to the mirror casually, like it's nothing, when it's kind of everything.

"About...?"

"Y'know. About us," Carly mutters, and my heart races, panicking a little that I didn't check to make sure no one was in the bathroom when I came in.

"Oh," I say dumbly, unsure of where this conversation was really going. "...why?" Carly finally turns around to face me, eyebrows creased.

"_Why_? Do you really need to ask such an obvious question, Sam?" I nod, and she signs in annoyance. "Because you're a _girl_, that's why." I blink. "You know, those things that get pregnant and wear makeup and don't have a pe--"

"Adam Lambert wears ma--" I start.

"Don't...even say it," she grumbles, giving her attention back to the mirror, watching me in the lower right corner of it.

"Is that seriously the best excuse you've got?" I ask, letting my feet hit the floor as I make my way in her direction, before I slip my arms around her waist and press myself into her, face in the crook of her neck.

"_Sam..._" she warns, and I feel all the muscles in her body tensing up, but she doesn't fight me. My lips hit the heated skin of her neck, and I watch her reaction in the mirror as she ever so slightly leans into it, her eyes gently closing and face reddening. She melts into me then, the tension immediately washed away.

"You _do_ feel something," I state in victory, "Whether I'm a girl or not." I step back away from her then, leaning on the horizontal support bar for the handicapped people. Carly's eyes remain closed as she leans over the sink, hands white-knuckled with what appears to be frustration. And I don't blame her, my emotions are fighting myself a lot too. "So, do you want to tell me what's really going on in your head? We don't have all class; Peterson is bound to notice that I'm gone before too long, and you too." Carly sighs, and it definitely confirms my frustration theory.

"It doesn't matter if I feel anything; you're a _girl_, and I made a mistake, and we're done. Okay?"

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you make that...'mistake'?" I ask, complete with air-quotes surrounding the word mistake, because I most certainly considered it anything but a mistake. Carly gulps, and pauses before she continues.

"I'm not gay," she answers.

"Yeah, we've kind of...established that." I say bluntly, eyebrows furrowed. I'm so goddamn confused. "Were you...curious?"

"Well...I...I don't know! I don't even know who I am anymore!" she suddenly exclaims, and if her knuckles could have gotten any whiter from her grip on the sink, they did. Carly's body immediately shudders, and while my first instinct is to reach out and rub her back, I contain myself as best as I can, because the last thing I want is her to lash out at me.

"It's okay, Carls, I mean--"

She turns her head and looks at me like something straight out of a bad horror movie, eyes red, face pale and streaked with tears, looking like she's between breaking down and cutting herself right in front of me, or just nailing me right in the face. "It's all your fault," Carly claims, shaking with something that isn't related to the tears on her face. My jaw slackens a little bit.

"What the hell are you--"

"Get out," she demands, face scrunching up with rage. I back away a couple of steps from the metal support bar in the general direction of the door.

"Carls, can't we--"

And then she snaps. She pulls up the left sleeve of her black hoodie, ripping the wristband from her arm and throwing it on the disgusting bathroom floor, leaving me to view her slit-wrist splendor. My stomach lurches at the destroyed beauty...that I created. "Look what you've done to me!" she screams, and I do.

I've ruined her, as it suddenly hits me, and I quietly unlatch the bathroom stall, fingers shaking as I do so, and leave as fast as I can, terrified, another wall of the Sam spirit broken down.

"I knew you'd walk away," I hear Carly mutter with a shaking breath, chuckling darkly as I leave the bathroom, feeling nothing less than suicidal.

Yeah, she's got some serious bi-polar issues.

xxxxx

I'm standing at my locker grabbing my algebra book when Trippy approaches me.

"Heyyy there," he drawls out, which I typically translate as 'Hi, wanna fuck?' in the simple language of Guy, but this is Trippy, so it's different.

"Hey," I reply, so far from being in the mood for talking. I make myself look_ extremely _busy re-ordering my books.

"So...'sup with you and Carly?" he asks, inappropriately suggestive. Either he's being a horny bastard or actually knows something, but I bet on the former.

"Nothing," I mutter.

"You would have answered more convincingly if you didn't want to tell me about it," Trippy says, and I pause, realizing he's right. The kid might be stoned twenty three and a half hours of the day, but that does allow for enough time for him to be a straight up genius. I sigh.

"It's complicated."

"Is she gay?" he reciprocates, and this would have been a really great spit-take moment if I had some kind of liquid in my mouth. Either way, I make myself look convincing this time.

"Why would you think that?" I ask with a chuckle.

"Well, she wears a gay pride wristband..."

"Just because someone wears a rainbow doesn't mean it's a gay pride rainbow," I shoot out faster than he could have finished that sentence, and Trippy raises an eyebrow. I sigh. _Good job, Sam!_

"That's hot." he says, and I roll my eyes.

"Yeah, whatever, I gotta get to algebra."

"Could I pay you guys for a...show?" he inquires, eyebrows wiggling beneath his forest of black hair, and it makes me laugh, even though I knew he was serious.

"Not on your life," I retort, snatching my algebra book from its new place in my reorganized locker.

"You look kinda...shitty," Trippy says, changing the subject before I have the chance to get violent. He learned to do that the hard way last year. "You gonna be wanting anything this year?" he asks quietly, and I freeze, eyes moving to meet his as best as they can through his hair. I consider his offer seriously for a couple moments, even though the pros _far_ outweigh the cons, simply because whatever he's got will get me away from the Carly situation, if only for a couple hours.

"...what do you have?" I whisper, licking my lips in anticipation.

"I'll text you next period, 'kay?" I nod, saying the magic words before I make my way to algebra.

xxxxx

It's a good twenty minutes into algebra before my Pearphone vibrates, and as soon as the teacher turns his obese back, I whip it out, rushing to my inbox with flying fingers.

**Trippy**: u want wut i got u last year?

**Me**: nah I need somethin harder son

I stuff my phone under my right thigh as he turns around, making us all recite some formula like y=mx+b, and I do so in my best attempt to not look suspicious, meanwhile, my leg vibrates. The teacher resumes his place at the whiteboard, and I sneak it out again.

**Trippy**: u crazy bitch i got sum serious shit here, whatchu want

I bite my lip. I can turn back now if I want to, but Sam doesn't cry, or write sappy poems or hug cute furry things, so I need some kind of escape in whatever form it comes in.

**Me**: whats the best u got

I feel abnormally safe texting in class, because I have the prime texting spot, back row in the far left behind this giant filing cabinet (my algebra teacher is particularly dumb). I had to give a lot of Texas wedgies to get this seat, so no one even _thinks_ about daring to challenge me for it. My Pearphone vibrates against the top of my desk, making a startlingly loud noise.

"Shit," I mutter, but it only causes a couple surrounding girls to giggle.

**Trippy**: you won belive dis but I got sum acid from my cuz in the bronx

My heart picks up a little bit, but I wouldn't call it scared, because I don't get scared. This was my perfect oppurtunity to escape, even if it involves hardcore street drugs.

**Me**: k how much

**Trippy**: well figer sometin out g2g briggs is bitch

I smile. There's no way this could go wrong. Besides, who needs a psychotic bi-polar chick when I've got great, street-drugs-supplying friends like Trippy?

xxxxx

"You're not even scared?" he's asking me across the lab table in science, and I shrug. 'Scared' isn't exactly an adjective used in conjunction with Sam.

"Not really," I say bluntly, doodling on my notebook with an extra-large black Sharpie. I'm not sure what compelled me to splatter its cover with images of tornadoes and bumblebees. "I don't exactly...get scared." He laughs at this.

"Well, you should be," Trippy warns me. "My cousin Spiderman got so fucked up from that stuff, he still thinks he's a mini marshmallow." I can't decide whether to be sympathetic or laugh at his warning, because I can't really tell if he's kidding.

"I'm not going to do, like, a ton of it or anything. Just enough to...forget." I say, the last sentence coming out as a solemn mumble. Trippy's eyebrow rises at this comment.

"Forget?"

"Y'know," I suggest, hoping he does.

"Oh yeah," he laughs, "your girlfriend. Right. Gotcha." I don't bother to throw a punch or a wedgie or anything; just return my attention to spiraling another tornado towards the top of my blood-red binder. Trippy opens his notebook and attempts to look like he's taking notes.

"_Not my girlfriend,_" I mumble, more to myself than to Trippy.

xxxxx

"You should totally sit over here," Trippy suggests as I tentatively walk into the art room the next morning, grumbling some kind of reply to Ms. Peterson's half-assed greeting. I smile at him gratefully, hauling my plastic chair and landing it next to Trippy, its metal legs clashing against the paint-splattered tile floor.

"Thanks," I say with a smile that's uncharacteristical for me, and he returns it.

Then I notice something different.

The entire trio of the Bitch Squad have rearranged their seating next to Carly on the long side of the table where I once sat, forcing Freddie to be crammed pretty close to the end of the table near Chanel. Speaking of which...

"Hey, Sam!" she calls out from across the other end of the short side of the table, and I wave. She waves back, and in an instant grade-school kind of way, we're all suddenly best friends, and this is a trio I could actually live with, easily at that. A few moments later, the two are locked in a passionate embrace and saliva swap, Ms. Peterson too busy singing to the hallway-goers to notice. Meanwhile, I prod my brain wondering why the Bitch Squad has suddenly...adopted Carly. _Oh shit, _I think. _This might be bad._ Tara, Katelyn, and Veronica giggle as Carly whispers something to them, quickly glancing in my direction. My right fist turns itself into a little ball of rage, all on its own, because the _only_ time someone discreetly whispers something and glances at you is when they're talking _about_ you. I just about breathe fire like an enraged dragon when they attempt to steal a look at me like I'm one of those county fair freak shows you spend fifty lousy cents to get in, only to realize the lady with the snake body is really just a head sticking out from under a table with a strip of cloth attached to it.

The bell rings then, and Ms .Peterson immediately strides into the room, scarily-high heels clicking with every step as she announces that we should get our drawings and start working on them. Chanel and Trippy snap apart from each other, and she shoots the two a warning glare.

Then, she reminds us that the first semester is ending in a couple of days, and my heart kind of sinks. Not because I want to keep drawing, but because I've learned to love Art class so much.

But then I realize, I only love Art class because I'm with the girl I love...d.

My heart sinks further.

I'm absent-mindedly coloring the final little happy blush on my bacon-eating face a few minutes later, when the thought suddenly hits me, kind of hard. I call out to Chanel in front of Trippy's head, which is concentrated on re-drawing the boobs on his..._realistic_ picture of his girlfriend.

"Hey Chanel...didn't you used to be in the...Bitch Squad?" I asked, hoping she'd understand what I meant. Judging by her cute little chuckle, she did.

"I sure did," she says, green eyes sparkling with laughter and memories.

"So...what happened?"

"Well..." Chanel starts, laughing awkwardly, "They didn't like me...going out with Trippy," she explains, her boyfriend eying her with an odd expression that makes my stomach feel a little weird. She nervously bites her pink-glossed lips, twirling a straw-golden lock around her finger. I mumble something about that being stupid, and continue my drawing, saddened that it's almost done.

xxxxx

I'm reaching for my algebra book a little while later when I feel a manicured finger tapping my shoulder. Instantly sparked with the thought that it might be Carly, I spin around only to be disappointed with the view of Chanel. Her forest green fitted tee perfectly matches her eyes, with beautiful contrast to her hair, and it makes me feel pretty envious.

"Hey Sam," she whispers, eyes darting around looking for something, "Can I talk to you a sec?" The way she's mashing her lower lip again makes me wonder why it hasn't fallen off yet.

"Sure...what's up?" I ask politely, retrieving my book and leaning against my locker.

"I can trust you, right?"

"Yeah, 'course," I tell her honestly, eyebrows creasing.

"Well," Chanel starts, sighing deep and heavy as if it's taking enormous strength to tell me, "About me and Trippy--"

As if on cue, an oversized hoodie-d arm lands around her dainty shoulders which immediately tense up, and her face hardens.

"Hey there baby!" he calls out, eyes darting between her chest and face. Chanel smiles nonetheless.

"I'll see you later, right?" she confirms, and I nod as Trippy carries her away, and I make my way to algebra, suddenly feeling like I'm seeing a totally different side of everything I've known lately.

A few periods later, I'm near sleep or death listening to a lecture on World War II when a soft hand slips a small strip of paper onto my chipped wooden desk. I look up to find Chanel flashing me a brief smile before throwing away a gum wrapper, her excuse to walk past my desk, before returning to her seat a few behind mine. I quickly unfold the paper to find a ten-digit number, a name, and a heart.

_Text me later & i'll explain everything_ is scrawled underneath it.

My fingers itch.

_So it could live, I walked away now..._

__

**Bleck, I really just want to get to the good parts. :) **

**Reviews make me want to write! Seriously, if you just read this all...it'll take you 100x less time just to type out a little 'Heyy good chapter!'. And that little seemingly insignificant 'Heyy good chapter!' is what I'll obsessive-compulsively refresh my inbox for, hoping somebody wants me to write more.3**

**Thanks a zillion for reading!**


	7. Overdose

_Not a day goes by that I don't feel its burn_

_There's a point we pass to which we can't return_

I hit the 'Send' button on my Pearphone following an enthusiastic message to Chanel, before slipping it into my front right jeans pocket as I breathe in the stark, freezing Seattle smog, brazenly enjoying the way it burns on its way into my lungs. It's just warm enough for the rain to slide from the clouds unscathed, and so the sidewalks gleam like silver as the sun inches its way into the sky. My ratty old black Converse hightops make a light slapping sound with each step as I make my way further and further from the Ridgeway doors, more than happy to end such a dramatic day within those cursed halls. The air is thick and heavy with humidity, causing my curls to have a little more dreaded bounce, but nonetheless cold, and the fact deeply saddens me. The weather is quickly bordering on freezing temperatures, and that could mean nothing else than an impending winter, if it hadn't come for me already. Winter has always had a very adverse effect on me, and that's been a trend since I could ever remember. Last year, it meant tumbling headfirst into an otherwise unexplainable depression, and causing me to search both kitchen and medicine cabinets frantically in search of anything that could make me feel even slightly better. Shoe polish's effects rarely lasted longer than a few minutes at a time, and was barely worth the head-splitting migraine that typically followed, and the handful of Zoloft I managed to find hidden in the back of my mom's med stash did little more than make my head go nuts and cause me to fall down the stairs a couple of times. Therefore, I followed the typical pattern of druggies and resorted to quietly asking around before I met Trippy, who quickly supplied me with whatever I wanted, as long as I could pay. And being me, I always find a way to pay, even if I get said cash by less conventional means.

And I'm sure there's some kind of mental disorder out there that causes me to feel this crappy during the colder months of the year, but I haven't been to a doctor since I had to get my last shots they required to enter high school. I don't plan on going, either, not even if my life depends on it, because, what can I say? This is a city; there are a lot of creeps, and I've heard the horror stories from the girls that were more well-endowed. I shiver bleakly, crossing my arms across my chest in a half-assed attempt to chase away the chill that's brushing against my naked limbs. I really should have worn a coat today, but I'm not exactly one of those girls who are cold all the time. At least my apartment isn't that many blocks away.

My Pearphone vibrates obnoxiously against my thigh, and I scramble to snatch it from its assigned pocket.

**Chanel**: so you really wana know the truth??

I groan, having waited all this time to get a text with such an obvious response. My thumbs move fervently to type out a sarcastic reply, before I roughly return my phone to its previous location, as I continue my walk home, the stained white laces of my hightops dragging in the puddles. Meanwhile, the dark grey clouds above me rumble with the threat of more precipitation, so I quicken my pace a little, knowing my mother will throw a tantrum if I come home dripping wet if she's sober enough to notice. The vibration occurs again, Chanel replying much quicker this time.

**Chanel**: me and trip arent exactly..going out

I physically feel the confusion contort my face, and I shoot back a similar text, not bothering to pocket my phone. I turn left onto my street, bypassing some of the hobos I'd typically be associated with. One of my favorites, Herbert, waves at me as he had always done.

"Best get home, Puckett!" he shouts out through his mangled salt and pepper beard, "My shoulder's poundin', so thatta be some damn storm comin'!" I grin at him. Late last summer, Bert had agreed to engaging in some recreational combat, convinced he could outwit the great Sam. Twenty seconds later, he had a dislocated shoulder that at first had him in quite the pain, but was now a gift that any hobo would love to have. Should his shoulder begin to ache, he'd climb into his television box and be well covered before the rain started. I fish around in my left pocket for a few dollars I'd stolen from the vending machines, and tossed him what I found there. Bert flashed me an ever-grateful smile, one that I return as I continue on my merry, merry way. My Pearphone wiggles in my hand.

**Chanel**: im just..yk. paying him for stuff...dont think im a whore

My mouth drops a few inches in surprise, but at the same time, my brain says, 'Duh, Sam!' and the lightbulb goes off. Suddenly, it all makes sense why such a...goddess like Chanel, would even associate with the Trippy type. Apparently, the green eyed girl had a secret beyond her Bitch Squad life. My thumbs fly.

**Me**: I dont think your a whore lol. I kinna thought somethin was up

A few moments later, I'm jogging up the stairs to my apartment, the ancient wooden stairs creaking with my weight and the ancient crimson carpet exhaling clouds of dust, before I turn the fake gold doorknob to number 6A.

I slip inside, the smell of dirt and alcohol barely affecting me after living amongst it for so many years. Kicking off my shoes, I find my mom either passed out or sleeping on the jade green 70's couch. My passed out assumptions are confirmed when my eyes find the empty whiskey bottle dangling from her hand inches from the worn carpet. I sigh in annoyance and shuffle my way into my room and await the arrival of Chanel's next text message.

It doesn't come.

xxxxx

I awaken hours later, stiff with pain and still in my jeans from yesterday, my eyes half stuck together with old makeup, and Pearphone resting on my lap with batteries dead. I must have fallen asleep on my bed still propped up awaiting a text back. I groan as I catch sight of 8_:42 AM_ blinking halfway across my room, and I stumble my way into the bathroom, waking myself up with a cold splash to the face. I scramble to get ready before rushing out the door.

The couch is indented with the absent figure of my mother, and a whiskey bottle lies abandoned nearby, a common characteristic of such an inhospitable place.

xxxxx

I'm over an hour late shoving my backpack into my locker, and I'm about to make my grand entrance in Algebra when a certain golden-haired girl stands in my way, clothed in a pastel flannel plaid shirt, green eyes sparkling when they catch sight of me.

"Sam!" Chanel calls out as she half-runs in my direction.

"What are you doing out here?" I ask curiously. She shrugs.

"I had to pee," she answers bluntly. "...You didn't reply to my text last night..." Chanel changes the subject, acting rather uncomfortable. "Did I...surprise you, or something?" I shake my head in confusion.

"I know I replied...I said you definitely weren't a whore or something like that."

"Hmm...that's weird," she says, eyebrows creased. "Anyway, just wanted to make sure we were cool. Briggs is gonna suck my brain out through a straw though, so I gotta get going!" The pretty pink lips explain, and we share a laugh before she dashes off in the direction of the nearby girls' room.

I stand a couple dozen feet away from the Algebra room, but I just stand there in the empty hallway clutching my tattered book, just thinking.

I hate when I think.

xxxxx

A few period later, after my dreaded English class was finally over, I catch up with my two current best friends in the entire world. However, since Chanel solemnly admitted her true motives with her so-called boyfriend, it all became clear to me; the signs had been there all along, and I had failed to see them. It was in the way Trippy's eyes always drifted downward but never held the_ sparkle_, the way the touches were awkward and suddenly were so obviously acted out, and the way her face fell whenever he came into view. It almost hurt me to see such a girl like her fall victim to such a trap, but she claimed she could back out whenever she wanted. It was her decision; she needed that escape that was beyond the point of mildly illegal and was too badass for even Rip-off Rodney to deal in.

We're on our way to History, one of our few classes together without her boyfriend (is that even the proper term for him anymore?), massive thousand-page books in hand, when Chanel breaks the deafening silence.

"So I was thinking," she starts, and it makes the hair on my neck raise with the familiarity I have with these words, "I'm going to hang at Trip's this weekend. You wanna come?" My instincts _scream_ in my head like never before, but the way her deep green eyes absolutely plead in ways that her words don't, cause me to answer against my gut feeling. I swallow my doubt, almost cringing as it sourly settles in my stomach.

"Yeah," I reply, and pleading eyes morph into gleaming ones. "That'd be fun." It wasn't entirely a lie; I do love being around them. Glossed lips crack into a smile.

"Sweet," she says, beaming with joy as we walk into the History room. "I'll text you his address in a few."

"Okay," I mumble as we take our usual seats as far away as possible, ironically, before the bell rings and we're subjected to the onslaught of a World War II lecture.

xxxxx

I'm feeling a strange, but familiar sensation one period later during my dull study hall that I share with Trippy and Chanel. Freddie also sits nearby, but nobody really talks to him unless they need homework help. A shiver is racing up my spine at the way Trippy is_ grinning_ when Chanel tells him our newly revised plans for the weekend. And the average human would never find such a facial expression odd when taken in context, but the average human hasn't seen that kind of grin in ways that I have. My initial gut feelings are suddenly seeming to be right, but I shake them off. I'm Sam, I've been through worse; I can deal with more than most people, and I have. My chair-desk hybrid creaks with fatigue when I squirm as the couple in front of me sneak a quick make-out session, and despite feeling like a creeper, I all but stare, noticing the stark difference between my two friends. Not only is the difference startling when you look at the physical traits of the two, but they _do _say you can tell how much someone loves you by the way they kiss you. I gag a little.

Our barely-five-foot study teacher returns from her casual chat in the hallway, and Chanel and Trippy immediately split apart as if on cue, despite the fact that it's a rare occurrence if she even notices she even _has_ a class. We resume our typical pointless chatter like the rest of our peers had been doing the whole fifteen minutes study hall had been in session, and I keep one eye constantly in Freddie's general direction, who is seated quietly, almost too quietly, behind us. It doesn't take long for me to realize that he's listening in, as he simultaneously doodles absent-mindedly.

xxxxx

I'm sitting silently in Spanish, anxious in knowing that this stupid day ends within the next thirty minutes, and it's excruciatingly painful because this last period of the day happens to be the most boring, and one of the few I'm completely alone in. I never would have willingly chosen a class like Spanish, but the guidance counselors insisted that taking a language is absolutely _crucial_ to my high school survival, and is an absolute necessity to graduating, and will make colleges absolutely _love _me. I laughed at that, but they managed to drag me into the course anyway.

It's then that my phone vibrates.

**Trippy**: yo I get the stuff 2nite, u want it 4 saturday?

I close my eyes for a moment and have _second thoughts_, a rarity in this screwed up head of mine. Because Valium is serious shit, and it didn't gel with me real well, but _this_...this is _serious_ shit, and while I'm desperate to get Carly out of my head--

I stop my thoughts on a dime even though they're very near a freight train, take a breath, and reply.

xxxxx

_I know that chapter was hella boring/semi-pointless, but I'm just dying to get to the next one. :\ bear with me; don't give up! Hahah._

_And while it sucked, I still obsessive-compulsively refresh my inbox looking for that NEW REVIEW! alert...so if you wanna keep me going? Just a little 'That chapter really sucked and was hella boring/pointless but I'm going to bear with you 'cause I want to read these exciting good parts you keep talking about!!ONE!!!!11'_

_Thanks a zill. (:_I


	8. Tables Turned

_All because of you, I haven't slept in so long_

_When I do, I dream I'm drowning in the ocean_

It's eleven o' clock on a particularly ominous Seattle autumn day, but it's quickly fading into winter faster than I can actually prepare for. This time, when I leave what I can barely call a home, I manage to remember to grab a hoodie on my way out, but as I walk down unfamiliar streets scanning house numbers for Trippy's, I still feel underdressed. The driving wind blasts into my numb face just to reinforce the point, and I pull the thinly-lined purple hood over my head. I've never been in this section of town before, and the first thing I notice is the difference in hobos. On my street, the hobos are friendly and quite content with their life, understanding the deep complexities that exist on this planet, and that some people must have that kind of life so that others can learn to appreciate theirs. As a young Sam, I had often been found with hands shoved in my pockets, shuffling down the sidewalk grumbling about how suckish my life was. That's when Herbert found no shame in reprimanding me, insisting that I enjoy the roof over my head, clothes on my back, and food in my stomach. While at first I had complained to him that he didn't understand, he had just smiled through his scruffy, greying beard with unrivaled knowledge and continued picking away at a half-eaten chicken wing. I hated him then, but when the infamous incident involving my mother drinking, breaking Melanie's arm, and saying some characteristically harsh words that were meant to be directed at me, I decided I was better off on the streets.

Herbert had taken me into his box without hesitation, but made it very clear that I was to fend for myself, and he'd only give me tips. The whole three days I lived outside the walls of my apartment building, I not only learned some sweet hobo survival skills, but I definitely decided that I could handle my dysfunctional family from then on. That was when I was eleven. And now, looking into the beet-red, glaring, angry eyes of the hobos on Trippy's street as they huddle around their rusty trash-can fires with numb limbs, I huddle further into my hoodie, extra-appreciative of its warmth. I notice the house numbers increasing quickly, and I start glancing around for the _627_.

_551_..._554_..._558_...I sigh, wondering if I'm doing the right thing after all. But then I think back to my three days alongside Herbert, and I walk on. After all, I should appreciate what friends I have, right? I take a deep breath as the numbers make their way into the five-seventies. Several hobos of varying ethnicities and back-length dreadlocks sit smoking on a porch step, their gazes burning into mine, and I lengthen my stride a little. For some reason, I'm not at all surprised that someone like Trippy could come from such a harsh place like this.

A few minutes of walking through the still-clinging heavy fog later, I come across the apartment building with a half-assed, crooked _627_ nailed into the side near the door. The moldering outer bricks of the building quite match their surroundings, and I walk up the near-crumbling concrete front steps and enter, the front metal door creaking as I slip inside as quietly as possible. I find his door up two flights of stairs, and knock strangely politely. A number of clunking footsteps later, I'm face to face with a seemingly overjoyed but still zit-ridden Trippy. He flips his cheek-length black bangs from his dark eyes, and flashes me a smile, which I return warily, before he lets me in. His apartment smells relatively clean compared to mine, except for an undertone of cigarette smoke, something far from unfamiliar to me.

"Been waiting for ya, Sam," he says blankly, taking a seat on his maroon flowered couch next to Chanel, who has perfect feet propped up on the coffee table and looking otherwise bored. I swipe the hood off of my head and run fingers through my curls before sitting on Chanel's other side. He leans over her to whisper, "I got a joint in my room for once my dad leaves," Trippy tells me, and I swallow, nodding bravely. Pot is nothing, right?

"So, uh," I start, crossing my own legs atop the pock-marked table, "what exactly are going to do today?" Trippy shrugs, and something boils annoyedly in my stomach.

"Whatever you and Nelly wanna, I guess," he answers, and Chanel raises an eyebrow in his direction, obviously not fond of the nickname, which makes him laugh. She punches him playfully in the arm.

"We kinda planned on just taking a walk or something," Chanel states, so that Trippy's dad in the nearby room won't hear otherwise, and I nod.

"Sounds good," I reply, meaning the words like hell. Even though today was obviously less than exciting, it was far more interesting than any blank day at home, especially since I can't go to C- I stop my thoughts, and will Trippy's dad to just go to work so I can get this chizz _off my mind already_.

About five minutes later, he does this, waving with a beaming smile before exiting the door clad in neutral-colored scrubs. My heart suddenly aches at the father figure that Trippy actually _has_, but I just as quickly brush off the feelings with balled fists, my typical reaction to the feeling. We wait a moment to make sure his dad has actually left the building, and when no more sounds emanate behind the closed door, Trippy magically procures a skillfully-rolled joint and lights up.

xxxxx

A short while later, my entire being is tingling like I've just had full-body orgasm, and I sit limply on the couch staring at the point where the well-tread grey carpet meets its eggshell-colored wall counterpart, and start comparing it to the intricacies of life in unexplainable ways. Meanwhile, Chanel sits giggling next to me like a little schoolgirl with a crush, the only noise now filling the apartment.

"Look at that," she says through a fit of laughter, "Look at those," Chanel points toward her pedicured toes, wiggling on the edge of the mahogany coffee table, and we both share a laugh, my insides fluttering around. Trippy sits on the other end of the faded couch, smiling softly to himself while he likely contemplates all things life.

"Trip," I call out flatly, "You should get the...papers..." I search my mind for the right word that doesn't really come. While the present is currently swirling in my brain, the past and the girl that all but owned it is still screaming out in the back of my mind, and so I want more powerful brain-clearing drugs. Trippy seems to understand my jumbled words, and quietly gets up, the couch springs squeaking, and finds his way into his bedroom, leaving me and Chanel alone together.

I'm vaguely aware of the fact that she's staring at me now.

Her eyes bore into the left side of my head as I continue to examine her toes, calmer than I had ever been in my life, and..._free_. Free, and beautiful, and nothing was holding me down and there was nowhere I had to be or do. And I wish I was outside, so I could close my eyes and feel the sunlight beam down on me and grin at the clouds and lift my arms in the wind and maybe, maybe just fly away.

And that's when she drops the bomb and kind of sets everything on fire, yanking me right out of the sky.

"I love you," she whispers, almost too quiet to hear, and sounding anything but drug-influenced.

And had I not been high out of my mind at the moment, I probably would have fallen off the couch sputtering and coughing at the sudden impact of such a blow, but my head simply rolls in her direction, blue eyes meeting deep green ones.

"That's cool." I comment blankly, and she nods. "How...d'ya know?" That's when she grins.

"'Cause...I love this," she runs fingers through my hair, "And this," cups my cheek, "And this," pokes my nose, causing us to both giggle with sparkling eyes, "And this," her soft fingers drag across my lips.

Trippy is acting so quietly, we don't notice his return, but judging by the way he plops down on the couch with the same blank face he's been wearing for the past half hour, he didn't hear or anything, or is too fucked up to care. The motion spooks Chanel, and her fingers jab into my mouth uncoordinatedly as she whips around to explain, but there's no need to. I spit out her fingers and smack her hand away, and we find ourselves laughing again.

Her fingers are quickly replaced and my laughter silenced when Trippy is shoving a little square of paper into my mouth.

"Chew an' swallow," he instructs me, returning to his statue-like figure before similarly putting two of the squares in his own mouth. I take a deep breath and prepare myself for the ride.

xx

Not five minutes later, my stomach bubbles like I've just drank a whole two-liter bottle of Peppy Cola (not that that's anything out of the ordinary), and the whole room starts shivering and trembling like the walls can't hold themselves up any longer.

"Trip!" I cry out in fear, suddenly not so sure that this was a good idea, "It's...coming down..."

"Shh," he replies, "It's just the acid, Sam."

Of course. _Silly me,_ I think, _it's just the acid._ Everything makes sense now. It all makes sense, and my brain goes from subject to subject like I'm flipping through channels on a TV, like how the Mega Bowl from Chili My Bowl is really a lot like fate, and then it's coming to rest on the situation Chanel kind of just threw me headfirst into. I mean, it makes sense that she would eventually fall in love with me, right? I mean, that's a typical best-friend thing to do. It happens. It must. It happened to me, so it must be normal. No, scratch that. I'm not normal. I'm far from normal. I'm more masculine than any other man in my life and I like girls sometimes and I put Jello in peoples' shoes for entertainment and I'm kind of messed up. The fizz in my stomach turns to a rolling hunger at the thought of Jello; I'd eat it out of anybody's shoe right now. How do they get it to jiggle like that, anyway? The whole room is jiggling, actually, and that scares me; makes my blood pump a little louder. In fact, that's all I can hear, the heartbeat in my ears, and it drowns out every other noise that might be otherwise filling the room. Chanel turns to talk to me with pupils blown wide open so that they're barely laced with a ring of emerald green. Her lips move, but if any sound is coming out, I can't hear it over the deafening repetitive boom coming from my chest and echoing in my head. The sheer volume of the noise makes me panic, and the pace of the thunder in my ears starts to quicken, and the quicker it gets, the more I panic, and I'm tumbling into a vicious circle that makes me freak out more and more. My breathing starts to go faster, and I'm pretty sure I'm having a panic attack, so I grip the scratchy maroon upholstery of the couch holding me so I don't pass out. Like I expected, my head starts to feel real funny, like I'm way up in the atmosphere looking down, and the edges of my vision turn all grey and sparkly. My legs tremble, and looking down at them, they look way too small, as if I'm looking through the wrong end of binoculars, so I assume I really _am_ high up in the sky. But what if I fall? I'm going to get hurt! Get me down!

I don't realize I've spoken the last few words until Chanel stops her babbling and Trippy looks at me with an all-knowing, sympathetic smile.

"You having a bad trip?" he asks, and I nod without really knowing what he just asked, because I'm suddenly very sure that something terrible is going to happen, and I need to go home _now_, even though it's not much more of a sanctuary. I stand up, a little too quickly, and almost fall over as I get suddenly unbalanced. My head reels again, and I catch myself on the arm of the couch. "Where you going?" he asks simply, and I rack my brain searching for the right words.

"Home..." I mutter, and for a moment he looks like he's about to argue, but quickly changes his expression.

"Need help?" I nod sullenly. He moves over to me, and holding my arm to keep me balanced, walks me over to the door. While a minute ago, my feet looked so small, they felt so huge now, and I found myself stumbling over them as I shuffled my way to the apartment door.

"Seeya," I mumble as I rattle the doorknob, sweaty hands annoyingly slipping around the tarnished silver ball in my palm, but refusing to open it. "God damn it," I growl rather loudly, but Trippy turns away to resume his previous position on the couch, as I violently jiggle the knob.

"You're such a retard, Trippy," Chanel says with a sigh, hopping up from the faded maroon couch and walking in my direction. "She can't even open a fucking door, how do you expect her to get home on her own?"

He shrugs at this.

"Not my problem."

"Asshole," she grumbles, opening the doorknob for me, and I watch in awe as glittery green polished nails grip the knob and turn it so easily. "Come on, Sam. I'll take you home."

"Oh, no you don't, bitch! _You owe me!_" he shrieks from the couch, but doesn't move. Even in my drug-induced stupor, his words hit my stomach like a steel dagger, the tone of his voice all too familiar, the one I thought I had escaped. But I realize now, I can never escape. I'm trapped in this stupid little game of his, and I'll never find a way out, and I'll never win, because even if he never finds me, his voice will _always _find me. The little pieces of him and all he's done to me will linger on, forever, and I find myself in the midst of yet another panic attack, and I stumble blindly out the door, eyes wide and brow dotted with sweat.

"Not tonight, I don't!" Chanel screams back, before slamming the door and catching me by the wrist. "Hey, hey, be careful. You don't wanna fall down the stairs," she says in a soft, soothing voice, and I feel the blood in my veins run a little more smoothly.

"He's going to find me," I whisper harshly, voice shaking, as I cast my eyes to the worn, darkly wooded floor of the hallway. "I can't hide from him! You have to help me!" The tears that had been pending behind my eyes all this time came spilling over at that moment, and I crashed onto her chest, hiccuping and choking with tears, my entire body trembling. Seemingly dumbfounded, Chanel runs her hand through my hair and rubs my back comfortingly.

"Who, Sam?" she asks quietly, as though she didn't really want to know the answer.

"My dad," I whisper against the warm, wet spot on her shirt.

_Longing for the shore, where I can lay my head down,_

_I'll follow your voice, all you have to do is shout it out..._

_xxxxx_

**Mmkay, so I sincerely apologize for this gigantic delay (what was it, five and a half months? o.O damn I suck). I don't really have an excuse other than that I love my summer and hate writer's blocks. Right around March I was threatened with not passing school for the year (which really, really sucked and I'd rather not get into...I've always been a straight A student!) and I got pelted with final projects and such. Then, after brilliantly signing up for an advanced placement english class, I got thrown a summer essay! Yippee! So, I've had quite enough typing doing THAT.**

**Anyway, as far as more excuses go, for some reason this chapter was incredibly hard to write, so I hope it's decent. I don't tend to go into family life issues in my stories too deeply and I don't plan to start, so there should be plenty of otherwise good stuff in the next couple chapters. Which, unfortunately, are planned to be the last. I hate saying that, because TGLU has been my (oddly) most successful fanfic, which I don't quite understand because I still think Strikethrough is much more well-written, and I still tend to re-read it and go, "Whoa, how the fuck did I write that, and where can I get more inspiration so I can do that again?"**

**But anyway. I'm rambling and in an extremely writey mood.**

**I feel kind of bad considering I waited five and a half months to give you guys this, and only added four hundred words from where I left it. xD I know, I'm retarded.**

**As I've said before...once I publish a chapter, I OBSESSIVE-COMPULSIVELY, literally every ten to thirty seconds while I'm on the computer, refresh my inbox just looking for a "Hey, good chapter! Carly's a bitch and Sam needs to get off drugs and holy shit, Chanel's a little sexually confused. Write more pl0x!"**

**Reviews please. Muah. :] If you read all this, congratulations. You've just wasted a couple minutes of your life you'll never get back. Get off the damn computer and go hug a puppy or something.**


End file.
